When my associates and I do these things, we always order a bunch of appetizers and pass them around. Since I don't go to too many ultra-high-end places on my own, this is always a treat for me. I tend to eat way too much -- especially if it's good.
Well, the food was nothing short of fantastic. The crab cakes were the best I have ever had, even though we were nowhere near the ocean. Even the deep fried calamari tasted so much better than anyplace else. But what really got my attention was the foie gras. Foie gras is made essentially by force-feeding a goose until the liver expands to the breaking point. Then they kill the fucker and extract the liver. Kind of like the veal of the fowl world. Very controversial, banned in many places, extremely rich, and very expensive. Since most people shudder at the sight of liver and my host was gracious enough to order a big pile of it, I naturally dug in and ate several slabs, savoring every bite of its rich, velvety texture. It was some of the best foie gras I ever had.
Continuing my gluttonous binge, I had a nice piece of chateaubriand cooked to perfection in a rich, tasty wine reduction sauce. All the while I'm washing this down with three hundred dollar bottles of French wine and watching all the hot-looking sluts walk by. I was in heaven.
Towards the end of the dinner I was thoroughly stuffed. But of course I couldn't pass on the chocolate creme brule, could I? Like a dumb shit, of course not. And then, feeling like one of the Rich and Famous, I joined the others at the table for an after-dinner drink. For me it was a twenty-year-old Macallan single malt.
I sipped the mellow spirit and settled into a warm, satiated existence that can only be described as complete nirvana. Finally, after much effort, I was able to roll out of my place at the table, tip the valet, and proceed to the car. I stuffed my fat, bloated ass into the front seat and drove off to my hotel, looking forward to a nice soft bed to rest my weary body and drift off into a peaceful slumber. A fine end to a wonderful evening.
And then it hit me. All these rich ingredients that I so enjoyed over the course of the evening were combining into the perfect storm in my stomach. I could literally feel it move through my system and gain in strength as the crab battled with the calamari, the chateaubriand had it out with the creme brule, and that fucking foie gras fought with everything all the way down to my colon. That placid feeling that I had just minutes ago was replaced by sheer terror and agony as a Category Five shit storm readied itself to make landfall all over the front seat of my rental car.
So I immediately took action, tightening my butt cheeks as the shit storm pounded relentlessly against my shuttered asshole, looking for a way out.
If you have ever been to Dallas, you know that you always have to travel great distances to get places. I was near downtown, so now I had to get to my hotel about twenty fucking miles away.
Nope -- actually, I had to find a gas station, and quick.
The problem is that I could never see one coming up. No signs, no nothing until you pass the fucking place. Then it's too late. So I had two choices. Either get off at an exit and hope there is a gas station close by, or try to make it to the hotel.
Fuck it. I floored it and barreled down the freeway towards my hotel.
By now I had a full-blown Hurricane Katrina shit storm on my hands, threatening to burst my levee and leave twenty pounds of shit in my pants. I grimaced as the shit storm alternately subsided and then gusted up to try and burst through. The only thing averting a disaster was the ability of my butt cheeks to hold the flood in check.
After driving for what seemed hours, I had tears in my eyes and my head was spinning. Just as I was about ready to give into the forces of Mother Nature and suffer the consequences, I saw a sign for my exit. Two-and-a-half miles. No way am I going to lose this battle. I'm going to win this one. Game on!
With great determination, I mustered what little strength I had left, flexing my butt cheeks one more time and flooring the accelerator once again. A sense of relief came over me as I saw the hotel sign. Battle-weary and beaten, I saw a glimmer of hope as the shit storm gained in intensity and rattled my asshole with fury. After parking the car, I gingerly stepped out, butt cheeks clenched for fear of cracking my asshole just enough to let loose a torrent of shit all over the parking lot.
Dazed and confused and with a demon in my ass, I had to make yet another choice. Walk up the stairs right to my room? Or walk all the way down the hall to the elevator and then back? As precarious as my asshole situation was, I knew that the first step I took would result in a stairwell flooded with shit; so I carefully waddled my way to the elevator with butt cheeks flexed.
As if to make one final attempt at conquering my asshole, the shit storm gusted up once more. I fought back, grimacing with pain, pounding on the elevator walls as I rode up to my floor for what seemed like an eternity. When I finally got out, relief was in sight. I was smiling and crying at the same time. I was a total mess -- but my asshole was still holding firm. A testament to the will of my sphincter.
There was a temptation to run down the hall to my room, but at least I had enough wits about me to know that this would result in a big trail of shit leading right to my room.
When I got to my room, I was breathing heavily, sweating coldly, and ready to pass out. So I went for broke. I charged the toilet, pulled down my pants, and let loose. My ass exploded with a screaming banshee of shit that came howling out, splattering the inside of the toilet all the way up to the rim.
Normally I would have let out a big sigh of relief, but in my condition I could only bow my head and muster a whimper. I felt like I just got done climbing Mount Suribachi at the Battle of Iwo Jima. But there was no celebration, no victory parade, no medals. Just relief that the battle was over.
I sat on the toilet for another twenty minutes or so, each time cramping up as more of the smelly concoction oozed out. The crab cakes, the chateaubriand, and of course the main culprit, the fucking foie gras. Yes, they were all there, punishing me even on their way out.
After everything had vacated my colon, I just sat there on the toilet for another ten minutes -- traumatized as I was, I just couldn't come to grips with the fact that it was over. When I finally felt it was safe to leave the security of the toilet, I got up and surveyed the aftermath of the armeggedon.
The toilet was destroyed. Shit was all over the place, with a dark, coffee-like liquid dotting the numerous islands of shit floating in the bowl. About ready to barf, I held my breath, flushed the stinking dark stew down once and for all, staggered to my bed, and passed out.
In a couple weeks I'm heading to Atlanta to meet up with the same group. I think this time I'll suggest that we go to Burger King for dinner.